


Fractured Memories

by MJ_Magpie



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/M, Parent/Child Incest, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 01:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MJ_Magpie/pseuds/MJ_Magpie
Summary: Post game. Memories, all out of order, and words out of time. After Booker awoke from the Columbia nightmare, he managed to scrape his way out of the gutter. For Anna, he put his life back together piece by piece, so he could be a half decent father to her. For a time, things actually held together. For a time, things were almost... normal. Until that time ended. 19 years of almost decent life with his daughter is thrown into disarray when fractured memories begin to invade Anna's mind, confusing what is real, and what is surely madness. The DeWitts are forced to take a hard look at who they really are to one another, and what they are each capable of. (Another Porn with Plot project; new smut and new story in every chapter!~) Warning: This is a BOOKERBETH story, proceed at your own discretion.





	Fractured Memories

_“A day at the beach… what could be better?”--A_

\---

The sunshine is merciless today, leaving Booker DeWitt not a miniscule possibility to escape his promise. Bad weather might have bailed him out, but it’s perfectly fucking beautiful outside, so now there really is no choice.

He’s gotta take her, like he said.

Well, at least it’s easier to drag himself awake at this ungodly hour when he’s not recovering from a booze coma; hadn’t had one of those in a long, long while. Of course she’s already awake when he finally makes it to the kitchen, and she’s busily packing a picnic basket while a pot of coffee awaits him patiently on the table. 

“You’re up early.”

“I was just about to come wake you,” good humor and faint teasing compose her lyrical voice and her summer sky eyes glint with an overflow of fondness. “You remember what today is, correct?”

“Tuesday?” her playful scowl sparks his amused smirk. “And your birthday,” he adds, watching her excitement paint a gleeful smile upon her face. 

“Yes, and you promised--”

“I know, I know. Just let me drink my coffee and find my keys,” he mumbles into the rim of his cup, breathing the strong rich scent of freshly brewed coffee. As he takes a lingering sip, light footsteps scamper up beside him, and suddenly thin soft arms are thrown around his shoulders. 

She hugs him tightly with wild affection and lets him go just as quick, already set to go pack her brand new swim suit. 

“Thank you, father! Thank you!”

He winces, lazily slinging an arm around her petite shoulders in a roughly affectionate embrace, preventing her immediate escape.

“Why so formal today?”

“I don’t know, it’s a special day?” her carefree smile always seems to light even the darkest of rooms. “Now let me go, I need to grab a few more things.”

“Hold on; can’t I get second to at least tell you happy birthday?”

“I _suppose_ ,” the nymphet young woman replies, the dramatic rolling of her eyes is undercut by the glowing playful affection of her smile. Leanly muscled arms tighten for a closer, fiercer embrace, and he holds her there for a few heartbeats.

“Happy Birthday, Anna.” 

“Thank you, Dad.” 

\---

The beach is packed with sweltering sweaty bodies. Heat waves distort the distant air and the sun gleams harshly on the crests of the waves. The sand is hot despite its paleness, almost enough to singe one’s toes inside their sandals. Anna hardly seems to mind, scampering on ahead and scouting the perfect spot; she’s always had keen eyes and an attention to detail, and it always serves the pair of them just fine. 

Booker tries not to scowl too fiercely at the young fit men that smile at his daughter a little too keenly; their eyes linger for far too long on her back as she moves along. Anna has always been a modest girl, for the most part, but the bathing suits these days don’t leave much room for modesty; Anna had insisted she was comfortable in the slim blue-sheened one-piece she had selected, and perhaps Booker’s playing the over protective parent, but he’d really rather she wear something that covered a little more of that pale unflawed skin. 

But it’s her choice, he begrudgingly admits to himself yet again, trodding along behind her as she skims the shoreline at a half-jog, happily hunting the perfect place to perch. 

They stake out a very decent patch of sand with somewhat threadbare towels and a patched beach umbrella. Anna treks off to find a vendor they had passed on the way, and returns with two sweating glass bottles of cola. Later, she ventures into the water to lounge in the liquid cool and scout for interesting items hidden beneath the sand. The hours rolls by at a leisurely lazy pace.

When Anna is tired the young woman sprawls upon a towel beneath a warm blanket of sunlight and slips comfortably into a toasty summer nap. Her guardian watches the gentle rise and fall of her breathing while the warmth of the day lures him into similar sleepiness. 

Booker knows he should stay awake as well, but surely it won’t hurt to rest his eyes for a moment or two…

\--- 

_’Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt.’_

It had been almost 16 years since those words had rotted his dreams. Before Anna, Booker had been a boozehound on the best of days, and passed out in a gutter on the worst. A habit hard to quit when suddenly thrust into unexpected single parenthood. But there had been a dream-- a nightmare so clear that it felt absolutely real, as vivid and valid as any memory. For a time, Booker had been convinced that it had all been real. 

Yet, as the weeks stacked into months, it became easier and easier to believe it had all been some kind of alcohol induced insanity… Some latent madness that the drink let off leash. He wanted it to be that, needed it to be. It was better than believing it had all really happened.

(That he lost her.

 _Sold_ her.) 

So he quit the booze, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy. In the early days, he barely had enough money to keep himself and his baby daughter fed, so at the very least, it was almost impossible to scrounge cash for his addiction (not that that would always stop him). But the young father would soon come to find that the less he drank, the less those terrifying real-as-life dreams would savage his sleep. Funny how that correlated. 

By the time Anna was three, Booker had completely dried himself out. No booze, no gambling, no nightmares that left guilt twisting in his gut for days afterwards. He had grit his teeth all the way through accepting the trade off, but in the end, watching Anna grow up was far beyond worth it. 

Hell, the elder DeWitt hardly remembers those dreams anymore, and his guess as to why that is has to do with being a single, working parent; he often sleeps too deep to remember his dreams. His new and cheaper addiction is coffee, which does nowhere near as much harm. 

So as soon as the vivid tactile memories begin rolling across his consciousness like a haunting mist, Booker already feels that something is terribly, terribly wrong. His eardrums feel they will burst for the relentless roar of the rain that rips up the puddles like gunfire. The smell of exhaust and burnt ozone fill his lungs as if with cotton, and his hands brace against the solid dreary grey brickwork in front of him.

 _‘No, Anna… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Anna…’_

A tiny trickle of blood runs wildly with the rain down the rivets and divets in the stone. 

\-- 

Booker gasps like he had been drowning as he tears himself from the dream that has soaked him in icy sweat. Startled clumsy hands jump towards his face and check immediately for a stream of blood, the action as fresh and on hand as though he had not spent over a decade without a shadow of the habit. 

No blood, though. His face is dry save for the bulging beads of sweat, and the scent of sand and salt still remain, untouched by the obnoxious metallic stink of blood. It was just a bad dream, he stubbornly insists to himself, though the anxiety makes itself at home by tangling its tendrils in his gut. He forces himself to sit up too soon and swims in mild vertigo as he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

It’s nothing-- just a dream about a bad feeling in the rain. That doesn’t mean anything-- the words run through his mind like pouring water, leaving no stain as they pass. It had been too real-- too much like the dreams he had had when Anna was not yet a year old. Dreams of the flying city and skull splitting pain between the eyes; dreams of falling through the sky and holding a woman in a starkly blue velvet dress.

This… _can’t_ be the same thing, the same thread of madness. It _must_ be something else. The drinking had caused that fever of madness and he had not touched a drop. Therefore, it _cannot_ be the same thing. The more firmly Booker scrawls the letters on the scape of his mind, the more they begin to soothe him with the safety of logic. 

Really, he could have been dreaming about anything; such nightly visions have no obligation to any shade of sense. Booker sucks in the salty air as finally the ground feels firm beneath him. As the breath rolls out of him he feels momentarily foolish for feeling such sharp stabbing panic over a wisp of a dream. 

With a sense of regained calm, Booker’s gaze slants idly to Anna, who still slumbers on the sunny sand. His brittle placidity shatters instantly when he sees the bright red ribbons of blood flow from her nose to her mouth, and stain her peach soft lips a poison apple red.

“Anna!” in less than a moment he’s crouched beside her, arms roped in lean muscle easily shifting the slight girl into his tender, protective hold. Her sweaty hair clings to his arm as Anna’s head lolls slightly, and Booker catches a glimpse of her eyes rolling beneath a brief sliver of parted lashes. His heart immediately jackhammers his ribcage. One work-worn hand lifts and carefully smears the blood off of the girl’s parting lips, and from beneath her nose. 

“Anna, wake up,” Booker insists while his unsullied hand checks the pulse point just beneath his daughter’s jaw. Her heart rate is slightly elevated, but rhythmic and strong. Dirty malachite eyes instantly comb the young woman’s face as a small gasp seems to signal a moment of lucid consciousness. 

“Nnhg… What happened, Booker?” their eyes meet for a moment that seems to hang suspended in timelessness. Booker, she called him… She _never_ calls him… But the next moment Anna’s eyes slam shut and she seems to swim in the dark shallows between unconsciousness and awake. 

“Wake up Anna, _please_ ,” his desperation makes him edgy and forces a growl into his voice; as many times as he tells himself this means nothing, it still tastes like a stale sorry excuse for a lie. 

“Mm… Dad?” Not realizing he’d squeezed his eyes shut, the spiralling man snaps to attention at the uncertain sound of his daughter’s voice. “You… look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened? Why do I taste… why do I taste blood?”

Without rational thought he squeezes her against his chest, holding her as though someone is trying to tear her away. 

“Uh, okay, hi? Is everything alright?” the young woman waits patiently for Booker to let go, and touches her fingertips to the blood on her face. “It’s just a nosebleed, Dad. Probably from the heat. I promise I’m not dying, okay?” there is uncertainty in her light breezy humor; faint flecks of lepidolite worry beneath the sparkle of affection in her eyes. She knows him well enough that her gut tells her something is wrong. 

“...Right,” the elder DeWitt grunts in grumpy uncertainty; Anna’s calmness makes him question his own instinctive reaction. As he watches his daughter paw through their bags, anxiety chews him between jagged teeth as he tries to get his head on straight. “Think we ought’a get out of the heat?” there’s less tension in his voice as familiar affection seeps back, and Anna glances towards him with a sweet sugar-cookie smile before patting down her bloody nose with an aged-thin, slightly fraying towel. 

“Feeling a little overprotective today?” the girl with the summer sky eyes gently prods the elder man with amiable teasing. “I promise, I’m okay.” Despite the birthday girl’s breezy ease, the tension refuses to relent at the back of Booker’s neck; his shoulders remain tight despite his best efforts to relax them. He can’t shake the feeling that something has started; that something is very wrong. Anna’s cotton candy calmness seems alien and unreal, but he can’t find (or can’t admit) a solid reason why. 

Are a nose bleed and a bad dream all that much to be concerned about?

“...Sure,” Booker agrees, unable to completely polish the tarnish of edginess off his voice. “If you say so.” He steadies himself with a few deep breaths and it suddenly occurs to him very vividly that several shots of vodka is far more effective. 

“I do,” Anna replies with sunny carelessness, seeming a million miles away from her father’s mire of dread. “Though I think I could do with a cold drink. Oh, can we please stop at that little cafe on the way home? The one with the rose bushes out front?” 

“... I don’t know, is today your birthday?” the false skepticism in the elder DeWitt’s voice smuggles out instinctive affection. It takes his anxiety down a few meager notches, enough for him to scrape a wry smile across his face. 

Anna laughs like robins sing in spring. 

“Why yes, it just so happens to be!” 

Together, they pack their things and stroll off the sands. The dusk stretches the shadows into eerie distorted shapes as the follow the broken road back towards home. 

~~~

 _“--ienman has been apprehended after the discovery of his horrendous crimes, shocking the citizens of Detroit with his heinous brutality--”_ static all but criples the feeble radio signal that struggles through the dusty pours of the speakers; the effort is all in vane when a deviant body is thrown against the table on which the radio sits, and it falls and busts itself on the cluttered ground. 

The Woman in Red twists a cinnamon-heart stinging glare to her assailant. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a real thug,” she growls, wearing her flush brilliantly beneath pale petal skin. The moment she pushes herself from the table she’s already pinned down by an unyielding hand biting the back of her neck. Sharp bloody dagger heels strike out at her attacker and he evades by cutting into the narrow humid space between her legs. 

“Maybe, once or twice,” The Man in Red replies with a kin kind of growl; he’s pressed indecently against her, keeping no secret of his demanding steel-hard erection. Her skirt is tugged aside as heedlessly as unwanted wrapping paper and she feels his dick eagerly twitch, nestled shamelessly between the cheeks of her ass. A hiss parts smeared ruby lips as her pulse hammers and her knees threaten to shake beneath her. Like hell she’s giving him that satisfaction. 

His hips give a few lazy ruts and the wet-scraping friction of only so little black lace between them has her repressing the instinct to tremble. She’s dizzy and she can’t catch her breath like she’s suffocating in slow motion and the last thing she wants is for it to stop.

She can’t believe this is happening. Again. Even though it never should; even though she hates herself for wanting this of him. For needing it.  
For loving him like this. 

But she’s addicted to this fever-dream, this disease. They both are. 

“Get _off_ ,” her growl is splintering as she struggles to push him off, but he is very much stronger than she is, and they both know the struggle is a show; merely something to wet the appetite. 

“Hmph,” he gives a humourless sound that might have been a chuckle, “if you insist,” the small smoulder of smugness in his voice sears her and she feels the burn run beneath her skin and pool cruelly between her thighs.

A rough calloused hand deliberately follows the curve of her ass, and suddenly delivers a stinging slap. She feels her smokey eyes shoot open and she almost doesn’t catch the cry from her parted lips. Bastard; he knows exactly what buttons to press. The woman feels her skin heat and sting and it adds gasoline to the fires of her already craven desires. 

And then he does slaps her again, and again, and again. He spanks her until her skin is red and tingling-hot, just upon the precipice of bruising. Her tiny lacy underwear are completely sodden, clinging to the curves of her cunt as the trembles finally break over her body.

“Funny,” he speaks flatly with an undertone of hunger, pausing to strike her abused flesh once more and savoring the way she tenses and hisses, “you not tellin’ me to stop.” He spanks her again, harder, and admires the stark red hand-shaped stains on her skin. “Almost like you’re enjoying yourself.” 

She turns an acidic glare over her shoulder but the effect is drastically undercut; she’s trembling, sweat-kissed and blushing, biting down the moans that well in her throat and the urge to writhe beneath him. She looks so fucking good like that, that he can’t help but reach out and almost tentatively touch the damp skin of her cheek. It’s a moment of tenderness that almost, _almost_ ruins everything. 

So he takes a fistful of her burnt brunette locks and hauls her into a brutally biting kiss so that nothing else matters. The way she shivers against him despite her very best efforts is far beyond the blissful burn of his other addictions; his rough mouth demands every ounce of her he can taste with the lancing of his tongue between her poison-apple-red lips. A growl hems his groan as he tips his head just enough to invade a fraction further into her impossibly soft mouth. The ghostly pale woman feels her facade begin to split and crackle as that worshipful tongue lingers shamelessly in her mouth, tasting every deliberate sodden stroke. 

So she bites him and the stout angry surprise in his muffled shout tastes perfect on her tongue. For a few foggy moments she doesn’t let go, only holds him there between the grind of her teeth while they both implode, little by little, by the gravity of what they’re doing. They rust, like they’ve made the air corrosive, and when it starts to sting too much, one of them always ups the ante. 

This time, it’s The Man in Red. A brutish fist finds itself again in her raven tresses and he pulls her back wards, arching her spine like a taught bow. It feels good, but it would be better if he could get her to whimper; those needy little sounds shoot straight to his balls.

But she doesn’t; she merely hisses and breathes shallowly through her teeth, unwilling to part from her bitter noire composure; but that’s fine. A bastard once told him _‘There’s more than one way to fry an egg,’_ and that bastard happened to be right. 

“The hell was that for?” he growls with his breath humid against her ear. While one fist remains locked in her hair, the other is suddenly tugging loose the hem of her shirt and crawling beneath it. Calloused fingers push roughly beneath bleak lace and silk, and suddenly he’s pressing her nipple between thumb and finger. A feral satisfied smirk settles on his scared mouth when he feels her squirm just slightly, despite herself. His thumb traces slow firm circles around the little swelling bud, and when it seems like she’s about to speak he squeezes and pulls.

Feeling her head loll dizzily against his collarbone while he toys with her nipple is a moment he knows he will return to later, in grunting solitude whilst striving for a cheap climax. Unless, of course, he can do this again. If he can hate himself all over again for it. 

When the softest breath of a moan escapes those kiss-swollen lips, he knows he’d take this free fall a thousand times over with her, no matter how many times it shattered them on the ruthless inevitable ground.

“Because,” she somehow finds language again, “sometimes, I think you get off more on being a smartass than anything else,” her words filter though a blood coloured smirk and her eyes dare him through the smoke and shade of her melting makeup. 

“Hmph,” battle worn hands scrape down the slope of her waits and around the luscious swell of her hips, and a quiet rumble of appreciation lodges in the man’s throat. “I can think of one or two things I like better,” there is gravel in his voice and sadism to his smirk as he roughly grasps each spanked-raw cheek and draws them apart around his searing sex. Pleasure aches in the marrow of his bones at the sound of her small break away moan-- smothered mere seconds after it lits from her lips. 

“C’mon, let me hear you,” he growls softly, rolling the cheeks of her ass around his dick and rutting shallowly against the sodden shadow colored lace. The woman grits her teeth as her heart hammers hard inside the cage of her ribs, like a bird thrashing gilded bars. The sunless palid nature of her skin eagerly betrays her body’s telling flush; her cunt oozes obscenely between her slickened faintly trembling thighs.

Still the spitfire young woman manages a dry scoff; she is foxish demure by the gleam of her cold water eyes. 

“Can’t make it too easy for you,” she speaks like cool menthol smoke, “where’s the fun in that?” her drawl is hard whiskey dry and it hits his blood just the same as ten shots of the drink. 

“You sure it’s a good idea to be teasing me right now?” a fist in her chocolate charcoal locks hauls her back in just the right way, so that his lips can shape his next deliberate words against her ear. “You’re not the only one who can up the ante,” warning and hunger ignites his voice, and suddenly his tongue rolls against her ear and he’s rewarded with a startled gasp and an escaped sliver of a moan. 

A few fast feverish motions pass and flip around the grim woman’s perspective; suddenly her back flat to the table and she’s being bent in half; her knees clench upon broad muscled shoulders and his hand clamps at her hip, guiding her position as he slides between her thighs. 

It’s always as thrilling as sickening to look into his eyes while they drink this poison together. The shakily held gaze makes them both feel every inch of naked skin burn as though judged by a hundred scolding scalding eyes. It forces them to understand how wrong their love for each other is.

So inevitably it’s broken, and immediately missed. His brutish mouth bites and sucks the sweet spot below the corner of her ear and jaw, determined to stain her skin with claiming bruises. Her ribs expand with each sharp inhale and press her satiny breasts to the course hair of his chest and the scars beneath it. Heavy humid moments pass like oppressive fog as their mouths melt together in a torturous toxic tangle; they taste each other’s mouths with indulgent strokes of their tongues and force their way past each other’s friction-swollen lips. 

His dick throbs demandingly, nestled in the lace that forms to the slick cleft of her sex. Through the soaked fabric he can feel the hardened bud of her clit and indulges in a few moments of deliberate grinding. He could empty his balls all over the black lace just watching her silently fall apart from the simple unceasing friction. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he starts watching her eyes. The smoke bleeds off her lids and lashes with her sweat, watering eyes and lingering rain drops. It’s bearable and beautiful when her eyes are squeezed shut and pleasure wrecks her expression. Rushing blood stains her sunless skin with a candy colored flush and her hands tangle into the sheets and grip like she’s falling off the edge of the world. 

And then her eyes crack open and the cool glass shards cut into him like daggers, despite the soft pleading stare. 

“... Why are you looking at me like that?” she croaks in a raw voice that edges between irritation and heart ache.

“Like what?” his own voice is just as ruined; defensive and leashed, shallow and breathless. 

Her gaze grow glassy and a knife twists in his chest because he knows the shine is unshed tears, and like always, they are entirely his fault. 

“Like I’m breaking your heart,” the words tremble ever so slightly as they lit from her kiss-swollen lips.

Language processing fails him. The sweaty silence seeps in. He has no answer, or at least, none that he can make into words and force across his lips. Not now, not with his blood on fire and this grim gorgeous goddess half undressed underneath him. 

So The Man in Red clamps his hand over candy apple lips, his fingers yank aside that meager bit of lace that compose her underthings, and he buries his dick to the hilt inside of her. Her spine arches and a savoring scream pours past her lips and is muffled by the dam of his hand. The pure physical bliss incinerates his anguish and leaves no shadows; the humid silk of her sex sleeves his dick in a skin tight grip and it’s impossible to think of anything else. 

The unanswered query pesters him in the back of his thoughts; his hips start to buck and he rides the wicked high that hits his veins with each of her pleasured-painful cries. She’s holding him suddenly-- gripping so hard as her nails tear down his back and paint themselves a new shade of crimson. It’s the perfect fuck and that makes everything so much worse.

It insites a nasty craving that never seems to cease. 

But for now they’re both content to lose themselves in the heat, friction, and sweat while the world falls apart around them. 

\---

_“It’s okay, DeWitt. I know how to fix this, I know how to save her; just take my hand, and come with me.” --C_

**Author's Note:**

> OMG I FINALLY FINISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER. 
> 
> The world seriously needs more Bookerbeth and I am doing my part to contribute! So I submit to thee internet my meager efforts. Because. Who doesn't write a million fanfics at once amirite? 
> 
> Want fanfic sneak peeks? Follow me on [Tumblr](https://mj-magpies-daydreams.tumblr.com/) for previews of my writing, the occasional fanart, sims madness, and other random stuff. 
> 
> Want to show me some love? Kudos are fantastic, but what I really love are thoughtful comments! Tell me what you liked, what you want to see next, or anything along those lines!
> 
> If you really wanna encourage me, consider tipping this Canadian with a [Double double](https://ko-fi.com/mjmagpie) =D Caffeine buzz = more writing! 
> 
> Finally, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work; the absolute best part of fandom is sharing the love with other fans, and I sincerely hope I managed to brighten the day of the Bookerbeth shippers out there. Fandom is to make people happy, and that's exactly what I want.
> 
> (And. A Booker to RP with, that too.)


End file.
